Five Minutes
by Caitlyn Rose
Summary: One day in the life of Rayna and Deacon, told in five minute intervals.


**Friday, 6:45 - 6:50 am**

For a while, they were woken up by music - all their favorite songs that the girls had somehow programmed the iPad to play. It was nice, but ineffective; either they'd laze too long, listening to the full track, then perhaps another and another, or they'd sleep through altogether.

Now, their alarm clock is a loud, incessant beep. Not sexy at all.

Deacon wakes with a jolt, reaching out blindly to hit the snooze button and upsetting various other items on his nightstand in the process. He can feel Rayna stirring beside him too, the sheets rustling as she rolls gracelessly into his side.

He lifts his arm up and around her, letting her burrow further into him, her hair splayed out and tickling his skin. Drowsy and instinctive, she kisses his stomach.

"Mmmm," she mumbles, shutting her eyes tight to the morning, and Deacon lets his eyes close again too, exhaling softly.

Half awake and half asleep, they lie together, for five more minutes.

—

 **Friday, 7:36 - 7:41 am**

Rayna has much more of a process in the mornings than Deacon - a delicately timed routine of shower, hair, make-up, clothes - the result being that she's almost never downstairs before him. For whatever reason, though, today's an exception.

"Girls, have you seen my keys?" she asks her daughters distractedly, barely even listening for their response as she whizzes round the kitchen and family room, shifting all manner of debris from surfaces as she goes.

The traffic report's on the radio, and Maddie's humming that song she's been singing for days, with the coffee machine whirring over the top of it all, and - where the hell could she have left these goddamn keys? How does this happen to her _so often?_ She's really so careful where she puts her things, it makes no sense.

"Your purse is right here on the counter, Mom - did you check there?"

"Yeah, they're not…" - Rayna glances up to see that her husband has appeared - "Oh, Deacon - hi. You haven't seen my car keys anywhere, have you?"

He's still bleary eyed and his hair is ruffled in a way that, at some other time, she might find adorable.

"No," he says absently, peering into a cupboard, a sad realization apparently dawning upon him.

"My coffee…" he murmurs forlornly, to no-one in particular, and it's enough to make Rayna pause her running around.

"Oh, babe," she says, her face falling, "I'm sorry. I forgot."

She comes up beside him, her own coffee having unfortunately been dispensed mere seconds prior, the aroma now filling the kitchen.

"Am I a terrible wife?"

"Terrible," he agrees solemnly, but there's no real anger in his expression; he looks too sleepy to work up much of any kind of emotion, honestly.

She lifts her hand up to his cheek, her thumb running across his stubble affectionately.

"I'm sorry. You can have one of my pods if you want," she offers.

Deacon looks over at her fancy machine with all its bells and whistles, a mixture of distrust and disdain on his face, and makes some kind of grunt that Rayna can only assume is refusal. It's not a huge surprise - she's never known him to drink anything other than the strongest, cheapest filter stuff, the kind that tastes like tar to her.

She catches a glimpse of the clock behind him.

"Alright, babe. I know this is a low moment for you and all, but…my keys…"

—

 **Friday, 9:48 - 9:53 am**

Her breakfast meeting runs long, so it's later than expected by the time she gets into the office and settled. She's just opening up her email when she notices the bundle of CDs at her right hand side, all in white paper sleeves. There's an elastic band around them and a yellow post-it stuck on top, with a note in familiar chicken scratch:

 _Ray - picked these out of the slush pile, think there might be some potentials, see what you think_

 _D. x_

Rayna flips through the bundle, a small, unconscious smile playing on her lips. From a business point of view, it would obviously be unfortunate for Highway 65 to let the next big talent slip through the net - and, aside from that, she believes in giving people a fair shot. But in truth, wading through all the unsolicited demos that come in is a time-consuming and, more often than not, completely unrewarding process. It isn't lost on her that Deacon's taken one for the team here.

She grabs her phone and scrolls down to his number, her thumbs moving at lightening speed:

 _Saw the demos, you're awesome_

 _Thank you :)_

He's not a huge texter at the best of times, and he's working this morning to boot, over on Music Row on a co-write. Rayna's surprised, then, when her phone flashes a minute later.

 _Anything for you ;)_

She laughs to herself, because he's corny. But sweet, she thinks. He's so sweet to her.

—

 **Friday 11:13 - 11:18 am**

Deacon used to think co-writing was about, well.. writing.

Turns out, with young artists at least, it's actually a lot more about about listening. Maddie was the first one to teach him that particular lesson, and it's been a valuable one.

These days, he works with almost everyone on the Highway 65 roster, but especially with the acts that are still in development. The latest recruit is Jake Archer, a shy 20-year old with a good ear, a great voice, and a pretty face that - in some circles at least - will probably end up overshadowing all of it.

"You got some good stuff here, man," Deacon says, scanning the half-formed lyrics on the sheet in front of him.

"Yeah?" Jake replies, and it's almost as if Deacon can already see him drawing up a little taller. That's the other thing about these kids – they seem to care so damn much what he thinks.

"You don't think maybe it's a little…I don't know, clichéd?" Jake rolls his eyes self-consciously. "The classic friend-zoned lament..."

Deacon just shrugs. "Hey," he says simply. "We've all been there."

He reaches for his guitar and lets his fingers move deftly over the strings, playing this sequence then that. He's just giving anything a try, at this point, hoping to get them started.

Undeniably, it can be daunting sometimes, trying to find his way into a story - a feeling - that isn't his own. But nevertheless, his fingers keep playing, and he tries to let his mind drift. and it really isn't all that difficult, he finds, to remember that crazy hair and a freckled face, and the knowing that of course she couldn't _possibly_. But if she _could_ …if just _maybe_ she _might_...

Pretty soon he hits on a picking pattern he likes and looks over at the younger boy, who's nodding encouragingly, and Deacon smiles. They're off.

It's surprising how often that works, he thinks to himself, no matter what part of love or life a co-writer is interested in.

Somehow, for him, all roads lead back to Rayna.

—

 **Friday, 1:39 - 1:44 pm**

Reporters always want to talk about Deacon. Always. And it's a tricky situation, both because she's naturally fairly forthright, and because happiness, she's found, seems to have this funny way of bubbling over, demanding to be shared. At the same time, though, there's something about her marriage that feels so sacred to Rayna that she's generally disinclined – just on principle - to let some hack try to make money off of it.

In any event, she feels well capable, at this stage of the game, of deciding for herself where to draw the line. What she absolutely _cannot bear_ is when they dance around the subject.

She's on the phone with a guy from some magazine she can't remember the name of - hell, it's probably a website, or (she rolls her eyes) a _blog_ \- whilst also trying to eat lunch discreetly on the other end of the line.

He's been leading into the whole topic for some time now, in what she's sure he thinks is a subtle fashion - some crap about their readers, and what would she say to strong women who find themselves struggling in their personal lives, and blah blah blah.

"Well, I'm not really in the business of giving relationship advice, John," she replies lightly. "If you want to know about me and Deacon, here's what I can tell you."

She pauses for a second, choosing her words carefully. "As hard as it's been – for both of us, at times – to be in this relationship… honestly, as things turned out, it was a hell of a lot harder _not_ to be. So…yeah. I certainly don't think that would be true for everybody, but that's how it was for us," she says simply.

"Care to elaborate?"

Rayna hesitates again for a second, then just laughs into the handset, all charm. "Not really."

—

 **Friday, 3:20 - 3:25 pm**

He just stopped by the house to get changed for the show, and he's on his way back out again when the landline rings.

He huffs impatiently, wavering a moment in internal debate before he picks up.

"Good afternoon, may I speak with Mrs Claybourne please?"

The voice on the other end is so unfeasibly chipper that it can only be a telemarketer of some kind. Even so, there's something about it that Deacon finds soothing, something that makes him stop in his tracks a little bit.

He still gets a thrill from hearing it. Mrs Claybourne.

And of course, he could get rid of this kid in three seconds flat – or even just hang up the phone. He really does have somewhere to be, after all. Somehow, though, that's not what he finds himself doing.

"She's not here right now. Can I help you with something?" he replies instead. Because he still gets a thrill from saying it:

"I'm her husband."

—

 **Friday, 6:01 - 6:06 pm**

The highest seats in the Ryman Auditorium aren't actually all that high, but that's not especially relevant to the ritual at this point; when sound check's done, they climb the stairs all the same and slide into the back row, knees knocking against one another's.

They've brought barbecue from Jack's, and Rayna passes one of the Styrofoam containers over to Deacon, along with a can of Diet Coke. The fizz as he pops the tab on it seems to echo all around them.

He tilts his drink in towards her conspiratorially, and she clinks against it with her own, a goofy smile on her face to match his.

There's a pretty good chance, she reckons, that this isn't allowed - but no-one has specifically told them not to do it, which is good enough for her.

"It's gon' be a good show," he murmurs, and she nods in response. It's ninety minutes or so, just the two of them, for charity. They've rehearsed a couple crowd pleasers, a couple personal favorites and, aside from that, have no plan other than to take requests. So far as Rayna's concerned, these are the fun ones.

"It's weird how you feel like you have to be quiet in here," she muses then, her voice as hushed as his. "It's almost like it's still a real church."

"The mother church of country music," he adds, for no particular reason, the well-worn phrase just seeming to trip off his tongue as he scans the auditorium. "Reckon this is probably still my number one place to play, even after all the stadiums and…whatever. There's just somethin' about the Ryman."

"Man, I remember your face, the first time the offer came through to play here. You were just, like," – Rayna shakes her head, eyes shining with the memory - "I don't know, a kid on Christmas morning."

Deacon laughs. "Guess we musta done somethin' right, huh? If they're still askin' us back."

She smiles, shrugging her shoulders. "Guess so…"

"Oh my God," Deacon murmurs then, and Rayna turns to see his eyes closing as he digs into the first bite of his beef brisket. He has, she can tell, moved on to an entirely separate, but equally reverential experience now. Suddenly, though, looking around this theatre, she feels a warm rush of something pool like honey in her insides - nostalgia, maybe, or love, or both.

"Hey babe?"

He looks up.

"I'm so happy I got to do this with you," she says softly. "Just…all of it, all this time."

"You've been my best friend for thirty years." She knocks her shoulder against his. "That's pretty cool."

Deacon looks at her for a moment, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Pretty cool," he agrees, slinging his arm around her neck, pulling her into him.

His lips taste like barbecue sauce, and Rayna discovers that's fine by her.

—

 **Friday, 10:07 - 10:12 pm**

His eyes find her across the room; there's a buzz between them when they get off stage that's always hard to ignore, even whilst they shake hands and pose for photos in opposite corners. It's contentment and anticipation at once, somehow - foreplay _and_ the afterglow, and it seems to make Deacon hyperaware of Rayna's proximity.

He's never seen anyone who can work the room like she can, in a way that seems so uncynical. She's good at connecting with people, making them feel special.

Right now, though, she's eschewing fans and suits and old friends alike, listening seriously as Daphne's telling her some tale. There's confusion in the young girl's expression, and hurt that's plain to see, her brow furrowed with worry.

At this stage, Deacon's learned not to treat every hiccup like a crisis - he's never seen anything like the way thirteen year old girls seem to fall in and out of friendship, never knew a zit or a science presentation could cause such angst. But still, he hates to see her sad.

Someone comes up, clapping him on the back to congratulate him on the show, and his attention is called away for a minute. By the time he looks back, Rayna's the one speaking - trying to soothe her daughter, he can tell - and it does appears to be working a little. Daphne manages a smile as her mom leans down to hug her. When she drifts off, somewhat cheered, he'd guess it's to find either Maddie or craft services.

Rayna must feel his eyes on her, because suddenly she looks right over to him.

He just nods in the direction Daphne went, both of his eyebrows raised in concern. _Everything ok?_

"Yeah," she mouths back, and the expression on her face is a _don't worry_ , an _i'll tell you later_.

Deacon smiles, gives her another small nod. _Got it._

—

 **Friday, 11:10 - 11:15 pm**

"Oh my God, I need to be out of these clothes _right now_ ," Rayna says fervently as she pushes open their bedroom door, her high heels having already been discarded downstairs.

"Fine by me," he can't help but smirk; when he turns to look at her though, she seems distracted.

"Uh, babe?" she starts, her eyes darting around, "...Did a hurricane hit this room after I left this morning?"

Deacon lets his gaze follow hers. The bed's still unmade, several drawers of the dresser are opened, the clothes he changed out of earlier are still exactly where he left them on the floor. Various pieces of scrap paper he brought home from his writing session are strewn on the bench at the foot of the bed.

He winces.

"I didn't even think…" he says, picking up the clothes and tossing them in a hamper. "I was in a rush."

Rayna cocks an eyebrow, thinking of the _thirty extra minutes_ he had at home this morning in comparison to her.

"Uh huh," she says, clearly unconvinced, as she goes to straighten up the dresser.

"Always with the drawers, Deacon..."

He comes up behind her, putting his hands on her waist. "I'm gonna improve, I promise," he says, in what he hopes is a somewhat charming fashion.

She turns in his arms. "I don't believe you," she counters obstinately, but there's some little bit of amusement in the way she's challenging him now. Because ultimately, she's smart enough to see the bigger picture. He does so many small things for her every day that it probably all evens out; she can forgive him his messiness.

"I'm gonna _try_ ," he amends, still wheedling, and she rolls her eyes as he reaches around for the zipper of her dress, pulling it all the way down to the base of her back.

She can't help but crack a smile. "Smooth."

He grins. "Thank you."

—

 **Friday, 11:31 - 11:36 pm**

They've been lying on the comforter, on their sides, kissing. Just kissing.

When she wriggles out of the nightshirt she's just put on, he runs warm, gentle hands up over her ribs and along the sides of her breasts.

"We don't have to," he murmurs then, his hands finally coming up to reach her face. "You're tired."

"Woah," she corrects, with a lazy smile. "I didn't say I was _too_ tired..."

He gives a small half-smile in response, nuzzling against her. "What do you want?" he asks.

Dropping a kiss on his lips, she throws the question back at him as she works her legs in between his. "Mmm, what do _you_ want?"

He looks at her, his eyes dark and hazy. "I want to make you feel good," he replies, in barely more than a whisper. And there's something so intimate about it that Rayna feels a shiver go through her entire body.

She leans in to kiss him again, tries to pour everything she has into it, tries to let him know, her mouth moving slowly and insistently against his, how much she adores him.

When she pulls away, she's flushed, her chest heaving a little. And her breath is hot against the shell of his ear as she whispers it, barely audibly.

"Make me feel good."


End file.
